


Damage

by cat_77



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-16
Updated: 2011-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-18 03:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cat_77/pseuds/cat_77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It can be catalogued, and possibly understood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damage

**Author's Note:**

> Written for sherlock_flashfic's "Near Miss" challenge.
> 
> Gen with a tiny hint of John/Sherlock, though it can be seen as simple friendship.

He starts with the fingers first, then the hand. Phalanges are simple enough: distal, middle, proximal. Metacarpals are next, then carpals, then the carpometacarpal joint.

“Sherlock, this is not necessary,” John complains, but he continues.

The wrist is far more delicate with far more miniscule bones, each one a potential injury in the waiting. The trapezium and scaphiod seem fine, but he knows the pisiform, triquetrum, and even lunate are the most commonly broken or sprained.

The muscles atop the radius and ulna bunch and flex as he grants them his attention and he briefly wonders if he should also examine the musculature and joints, especially as he moves on to those most easily torn or otherwise damaged.

The movement, however, is the only warning he is to receive before a hand wraps around his own. The phalanges press against his metacarpals and it takes him a moment before he can concentrate enough to think that no, that is not right, he had not reached the bones on the other hand yet, he still had at least the clavicle and scapula to traverse, and that was if he ignored the spinal column and cranium before he moved to the other side.

“Sherlock,” John says. He squeezes his hand slightly and Sherlock wonders how many times he had repeated the word given the expression on his face even as he catalogues the movement and the subtle play beneath the skin.

His eyes trace that movement, eyebrows furrowed, jaw tensing and releasing. The innervations call to him, the connections of the musculature sing in his mind.

“Stop,” John orders, and he wonders why.

“Freak’s being freaky again,” he hears Donovan say under her breath, but he pays her no mind. She does not matter, not in this instant. Neither does Lestrade with his put upon sigh, or Mycroft who doubtlessly awaits in the sleek black vehicle barely visible in the shadows.

“This is not necessary,” John repeats. He breathes deep, air filling his lungs to be pressed outward, travelling through his oesophagus and pharanx – both laryngo- and oro- and the epiglottis in between – caressing the soft palate, moving forward to the hard but only after splitting at the palatine tonsil to...

The hand on his wrist is somehow cupping his cheek now, shaking him slightly. He tries to ignore the internal to concentrate on the external, to wide and worried eyes staring back at him. He tries not to think of iris and pupil and instead of the emotion behind the expression, but it is difficult and he fears he fails as the names of blood vessels and nerves cycle through his head.

“Sherlock, stop,” John orders, for his tone brokes no argument. “I am fine,” he insists, but there is the slightest catch at the end of his words that could indicate mild respiratory distress.

“He had you,” Sherlock manages, voice harsh and raw to his own ears. He thinks of the damage possible from speaking like this, not just breathing in the chemical laden air, but forcing the words out when his body fights his every move. Nodules along the vocal folds, stress and stretching to the muscles that will affect his speech patterns for days.

“And now I am free,” John argues back.

“He hurt you,” Sherlock tells him. “I can see the damage. If there is this, there could be more.”

“Nothing more than a few scrapes and bruises, yeah?” John tries, and if Sherlock did not see the slight wince at the end, did not know how fragile the human body really was and how very many things there are to break and bend and shatter and tear, he might have even believed him.

His focus shifts to John’s knuckles, the raw skin there, before he notices a two centimetre long cut along his hairline, another three-fourth’s its size hidden in the grime above John’s left eyebrow. Now contaminates cite themselves, the risk of infection and the complications thereof read off as clearly as a text in the library.

“He hurt you,” he repeats, but does not know why. Moriarty wished to hurt Sherlock. To injure John served that purpose for reasons that make no logical sense to him, not yet. If he can examine the evidence, decipher the data, the pieces can fall into place and he can solve this quandary like any other puzzle that presents itself in a reasonable fashion.

“I’m fine,” John insists, but it must be a lie. Sherlock can see the damage himself, can deduce what injuries may occur to a trained soldier and physician taken against his will, held captive for hours, and found handcuffed to a radiator in a building set for demolition.

“No, you are not,” Sherlock argues back. John’s hand is still cupping his cheek; he has not moved to alter this.

He can see when John changes tactics, the slight flicker in his eyes, the way his tongue darts out to wet the bow of his lip. “I got a little roughed up, but nothing serious,” John admits. “Mostly I’m just bloody exhausted and could use a good cuppa and a scrub down.”

Those are things Sherlock can do, things he can allow. Tea and biscuits and soap and antiseptic and clean bandages – all things readily available back at the flat. John is playing him, he can tell by the slight tension in the way he holds himself, the too calculated tilt of his head.

“You can see for yourself just how fine I am then, okay?” John offers. “No broken bones, no damage to the trigeminal nerve, and no crowds wondering if they need to take you in for going off the deep end.”

Sherlock could not care less what the others think, but it was apparently an issue for John and John was the focus at this time, John and his wishes were what were important. If John wished to return to Baker Street for tea and biscuits instead of going to hospital, it would happen. A trained doctor and one who knew as much about anatomy as a trained doctor could do the initial review, call for assistance should the damage be too great for their combined talents.

Sherlock nods and wonders why his actions are so shaky. He closes his eyes to steady himself and can only see the bullet embedded in the wall 4.29 centimetres away from where John’s skull should have been. He opens them to see remnants of the plaster fall from John’s hair as he repeats Sherlock’s action and nods, finally removing his hand.

Sherlock’s skin feels cool from the sudden lack of touch, the slight breeze in the air focusing on that small patch and heightening his senses. John’s hand pressing against his shoulder startles him even as it comforts him, and he listens dully as John explains to Lestrade that they are going home and no ambulance will be needed at this time.

Lestrade himself offers them a ride and they accept, or rather John does and Sherlock does not object. It is better than having to deal with Mycroft and his raised eyebrow and knowing smirk, even if the suspension on the squad car leaves a lot to be desired.

They slide into the back and the Inspector closes the door when Sherlock makes no move to do so himself, concentrating instead on how John is keeping contact, never going more than two seconds without the slight pressure against some part of Sherlock, be it shoulder or shin, as though he is the one to be reassured and examined.

As Sherlock looks to John, ignoring London streaming by in the window behind him, he has to question if that deduction is correct. He has to wonder just who suffered the greater damage in Moriarty’s latest game.


End file.
